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“Oh, I am angry. I’m furious.” As if to prove her point, she shoved him hard with both palms flat on his chest. Taken off-guard, he stumbled back and plopped down on the berth.
She came down on top of him, and in a defensive gesture, he caught her wrists right before they could strike his face. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think moldy bread and desiccated apples make up for what you did?”
“No.” He struggled to hold her. She was fighting him, her wrists slippery in his grip. “But I saved you. That has to count for something.”
“That’s the only reason I haven’t killed you yet.”
On a laugh, he rolled her over. She gasped in surprise at the coup d’état and scowled up at him. Before she could knee him in the bollocks, he straddled her, imprisoning her legs between his. The chemise had fallen off her shoulder, baring the half-moons of her plump breasts.
“The reason you haven’t killed me yet is because you can’t. Farmer’s son, remember? I’m a lot stronger than the fops you prefer.”
She bucked under him. “Do you think I care where you came from or who your parents were? I come from Swansea. I wasn’t born a lady. I want to kill you because you’re a traitor.”
He glared down at her. “You will have to find the back of the queue. I’m dead when we reach England anyway. You may stand in the front row of my hanging.”
“Then I suppose this is my last chance to take you to bed,” she said, venom making her voice hard.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. His grip on her wrists must have slackened because her hands were free. He flinched in anticipation of a slap to his face, but instead she wound her hands around the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.
The kiss was hot and hard, and the punch of arousal intense.
He wrenched back, breaking the kiss. “I thought you hated me.”
“I do.”
He grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the berth and kissing her again. This time she moaned and writhed under him.
“But I want you more,” she said on a gasp as his tongue lashed at hers.
He wanted her too, and with an intensity he had never felt before. He would take her any way she would have him. He deepened the kiss, and when her ardor met his, he had to bite back the urge to free his straining erection and thrust into her. This was the last time they would ever be together. Madame Fouchet would reveal his true identity as soon as he returned, if she hadn’t done so already. He’d be arrested and hanged. There would be no leniency. One did not impersonate a peer and live to breathe anther day.
Like a man sipping his last cup of wine, he lapped at her mouth, brushed his lips over her cheeks, and tasted the slope of her neck. She smelled so clean that he paused to inhale. After hours in the rank sewers and then dirty boats and carts, the scent of her was heaven. Her pulse raced where his flesh met hers, and he darted his tongue out to touch the beating point. She was alive, and her blood thrummed for him. He wanted to be certain she never forgot him, never forgot this coupling.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, to slow down and savor, even as she pulled his shirt from his shoulders and urged him with her whimpers and her arched back to take her.
Instead, he levered up on his elbows and looked down at her. Her eyes opened, softly blue and filled with a haze of passion. “What is it?” Her voice was a whisper as she fought to catch her breath.
“I wanted to look at you. You’re so very beautiful.”
She closed her eyes. “My hair is awful, and I’m sure I look as though I haven’t slept for a week.”
“I don’t care about your hair, and what you look like is a strong, resilient woman. You would have gone to the guillotine with your head held high, and you faced the rats in the sewers the same way.”
He felt her shudder beneath him. “I prefer the guillotine to the rats any day.”
He laughed. “Only you would say that.” He kissed her lightly. “Gabrielle.” He kissed her again. “My love.”
“Ramsey—“
He placed a finger over her lips. “I know you don’t love me. But just this once, let me love you.”
He ran a finger down her cheek until he reached her collarbone. Sliding over, he caught the edge of her bodice and tugged it down very, very slowly. The curve of her breast crested into a hard, pink nipple. She moaned quietly when he finally pulled the fabric away. His hand dipped lower, tracing the shape of her with one finger, then sliding that finger over the distended nipple. Her hands came up and gripped his biceps as he repeated the gesture on the other side.
He lowered his head and kissed the valley between her breasts, then trailed his tongue up the slope of one breast and circled the nipple at the crest. He licked the length of the hard point. As her breathing quickened into pants, he rolled it between his lips. Her fingers dug into his arms almost painfully by the time he took her into his mouth, suckled her. When he pulled back, he blew on the swollen skin and it pebbled.
Before ministering to the other breast, he glanced at her face. Her cheeks were rosy with arousal, her lips wet where her tongue had darted out to moisten them. He tried to imprint the image in his mind. He’d think of it when he walked to the gallows. He’d regret nothing.
He took her other breast in the same slow manner, then drew her chemise down and down, kissing each inch of revealed skin. She was soft and supple, her body quivering when his lips passed over a particularly sensitive spot.
